


dearly deceased

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, M/M, but also hermann is pining, the usual level of newmann snippiness, vulture culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27501817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Hermann runs into his new neighbour. Hermann doesn't particularly like him—at least, until he discovers who the other is.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 1
Kudos: 35





	dearly deceased

**Author's Note:**

> the fact that there's no newmann vc fics is a _shame_ so i thought fuck it i may as well write one

Hermann’s in the middle of surveying a nice racoon when he meets the man. Or, rather: he’s in the middle of awkwardly contorting himself to pick up the racoon with his gloved free hand and shove it into the large, black garbage bag he’s brought with him, when a shrill voice cries, “Hey! That’s mine!”

Hermann finishes shoving the racoon into the bag and turns around; expression dour. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he says. “I found this yesterday, and came back to fetch it today. And, as you can see, it’s already in my bag, so.”

The man scowls at him. “What, do you need, like, written proof that I was here first?” he snaps.

“Yes,” Hermann replies, “and seeing as how you do not seem likely to produce it, I’ll thank you kindly to get out of my way and let me put this into the boot of my car.”

“Who the fuck says  _ boot _ ,” the man mutters; but grudgingly lets Hermann pass, yelping when Hermann’s cane  _ accidentally _ whacks his shins. Hermann pretends he doesn’t notice; stabbing the cane into the ground to counterbalance the weight of the bag. “Anyway,” the man continues, following after Hermann, “you can’t really know what to do with that, can you?”

Hermann purses his lips. “I do,” he says, not elaborating, “now, please leave me be—”

“—’cause if you’re going to eat it, can I suggest you  _ don’t? _ ”

“I’m not going to  _ eat _ it,” Hermann snaps. “For many reasons—actually, no, you don’t deserve any explanation. Kindly, as you  _ Americans  _ would put it,  _ fuck off. _ ”

The other lets out a surprised  _ wouf _ of an exclamation; more of a breath of air than anything else. “Harsh,” he says, “fine. I’ll leave you be, man. Just don’t come crying to me when you get fleas from it.”

“I’m no  _ idiot, _ ” Hermann says, but the man’s already turned around and disappeared back into the brush. Hermann closes his mouth, ears burning slightly for reasons he cannot quite comprehend. He stomps the rest of the way back to the car, and then has to sit down and massage his leg once he gets there, on account of it having started to send pangs up and down the limb.

After that, he sticks the bag in the boot, and makes the drive back home with a scowl affixed to his face. 

He thanks his good sense for having purchased a place with an automatic garage as he gets into the driveway; it makes it much easier to unload the bag from the boot. It takes a bit more manoeuvring to get the bag onto the large table he’s got set up in the middle of the room.

That’s where he leaves it for the moment; it’s late, and it’s cold enough that it won’t decompose much overnight, and besides, he’s had a long day, and he’s more than ready to get into bed and forget all about the horrid little American he encountered earlier.

With that, he peels off his glove, and tosses it into the rubbish-bin, flicking off the light behind him, and opening the door that connects the garage to the house.

It’s warm inside; the result of good insulation and a proper heating system; and Hermann feels his muscles begin to relax, and he sighs slightly; contented. 

Ada, his steely-grey tabby, threads between his legs, meowing platively. Hermann’s lips twitch. “Alright, darling, alright,” he assures, “I’m getting to it, don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten you.”

He makes his way into the kitchen; filling up a glass and taking a few sips before he sets it down and goes over to the refrigerator, pulling out the can of wet cat-food, and then the bottle of pills from the cabinet, and a plate besides.

Ada watches him prepare the dish, and meows again, as if to complain that he’s taking too long. “Incorrigible creature,” he says, affectionately, and sets the plate down onto the floor. Ada rushes over and begins to scarf the food down. 

Within moments, the plate is cleaned; and Hermann sticks it in the washer; digging through the fridge to pull out a container of leftover pasta from last night, and sticks it in the microwave for a minute and a half.

When it beeps, he takes it out, and makes his way over to the table, setting the glassware down, and then returning to the kitchen for his utensils. Once he sits down, Ada leaps up into his lap, and begins to purr away as he eats. He props the cane up against the table, and, hand now free, begins to pet her.

Once he’s finished his meal, he gets ready for bed, and then, Ada following after him, gets into bed, sleep overtaking him mere moments after his head hits the pillow.

The next morning, he wakes with the sun as usual; slips a pair of his warmest slippers, and a thick coat, and makes his way into the garage, shivering slightly even with the layers. The racoon is still on the table, and Hermann busies himself with getting out his scalpels and scissors and other tools.

The first step is to take off the fur; that, thankfully, proves to not be too much of a hassle; and Hermann doesn’t have to stand for it, so he drags over the office chair he keeps in here for occasions like this, and sits, before truly getting to work.

The pelt comes off slowly but surely; grey, white, and black fur peeling back to reveal the muscles beneath. By the looks of it, the racoon was an almost remarkably healthy fellow, and probably died of old age; Hermann doesn’t see any signs of trauma in any of the usual places—no bite-wounds or scars on the bones that he can see.

Once that’s done, he pushes it to the side, and starts on the process of removing everything else.

A few gruelling hours later, he’s got it about half-stripped to the bone; the exertion leaving him sweating slightly; which is, of course, when the doorbell rings. Hermann bites back a noise of irritation, shucks his gloves, picks up his cane, and makes his way to the front door.

“Hi! I’m Newt Geiszler,” says the man at the door, before Hermann slams it in his face. Maybe if he pretends he’s not there the man—Newt—will leave. “Hey!” Newt protests from the other side of the door, “I was just gonna say I’m your new neighbour and I brought you some cookies!”

“I don’t want them,” Hermann automatically replies, and then curses himself; there’s no way that the man will go away  _ now. _

“They’re chocolate chip?” Newt says, as if that’ll make a difference. 

After a few beats, and against his better judgement, Hermann eventually opens up the door. “Fine,” he says, “but I’ll only take them if you promise to never show your face on my property again.” He holds out a hand to take the cookies.

Newt doesn’t take the hint. “What are you doing with the racoon?” he says, instead, the box of cookies on his hip. “I mean, if you’re not eating it.”

Hermann sighs. “If I tell you, will you give me the cookies and go away?”

“Uh huh,” Newt says, not terribly convincingly.

“Fine. If you  _ must _ know,” Hermann bites out, “I’m cleaning it. I collect bones.”

“Oh.” Newt considers that for a moment, and then brightens up. “Well, I’ve had weirder neighbours.”

“ _ Go, _ ” Hermann says, and practically snatches the box when Newt offers it up,  _ finally _ . “Goodbye, Mister Geiszler.”

“I didn’t get your name!” Newt protests, but Hermann’s already closed the door on him.

Hermann leaves the box of cookies in the kitchen and returns to the garage; pulls on another pair of gloves and gets back to work.

By the time another two hours have passed, he’s got it clean enough to be satisfactory; and, one by one, he places the bones into the crates of beetles; watching as they scurry over the bones before getting to work. With any luck, they should have them cleaned in a few days, and then he can soak them in peroxide.

That done, he cleans off his dissection tools and the table, throwing away the garbage bag; and then makes his way back into the house.

The next hour is spent reading, and then he takes a break for lunch, and then reads a bit more. Around three, he rises to go check the mail.

There’s a few bills; some advertisements; and then, there, a familiar yellow envelope. Hermann’s heart quickens—he hadn’t expected a reply from his penmate for another week.

When he opens the letter, however, what greets him is wholly unexpected; just a short note— _ Sorry about earlier; I didn’t mean to come off as rude. I thought I’d offer to tan the racoon pelt for you—I have some experience with that, if you want.  _

For a moment, Hermann’s disappointed—obviously, his neighbour and his penmate merely use the same type of envelopes, that’s all—and then he gets to the bottom, where, in near-illegible scrawl, is signed,  _ your new neighbour, Newton G. _

Hermann near-about drops the letter in shock. 

Somehow, he’s wound up with his penmate for his neighbour.

It takes a few moments for him to process it properly; but once he has, it hits him like a freight train. 

“Oh, dear,” he groans, “I’ve been simply horrid to him.” Well, that simply won’t do—he doesn’t want the man who’s his closest friend in all the world to think of him as—as some uptight bastard. No! Absolutely not!

With that conviction in mind, he wheels around to the house, and hastily gathers the box of cookies and a carton of ice-cream into a bag.

There’s only one house that’s been empty for as long as Hermann has lived here, and as such, he’s fairly sure that it’s the right doorbell he’s ringing. His assumptions are proven to be correct when, a few moments later, Newton himself opens the door. 

He seems a tad surprised to see Hermann at the door. “Er, hi?” he says.

“Hello,” Hermann says, feeling painfully awkward. “Er. I came to apologise for my...callousness, earlier.” He holds out the bag. “I’m Hermann Gottlieb, you see, and, well, I only just realised we know each other when I read your note.”

Newton gapes at him. “ _ Hermann? _ ” he says; and then, brightening, “dude, come inside! It’s freezing out there.” He grabs the bag from Hermann, and their fingers brush, and Hermann’s ears go scorchingly hot.

“As long as it’s not an intrusion,” he mumbles.

Newton grins widely at him. “It’s not,” he promises. “Come on in.”

Hermann does.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
